


How Does Your Garden Grow?

by messofthejess



Series: Jess's Carry On Countdown 2020 [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Banter, F/M, Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Spells & Enchantments, it's not that shippy but it also kinda is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27950360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messofthejess/pseuds/messofthejess
Summary: Teenage Malcolm and Natasha work out spells in the library and banter along the way.
Relationships: Malcolm Grimm & Natasha Grimm-Pitch, Malcolm Grimm/Natasha Grimm-Pitch
Series: Jess's Carry On Countdown 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034865
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	How Does Your Garden Grow?

**Author's Note:**

> "Does anyone actually want shipfic for Malcolm and Natasha?" I asked myself. And my self said "Yes, I want it." So I wrote it. 
> 
> No beta this time around. Just how the cookie crumbles. Hopefully I didn't stray too far from the prompt. 
> 
> Written for Day 13 of the 2020 Carry On Countdown: "under the surface".

**Malcolm**

This is the third bookshelf I’ve looked on for a volume of _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_ , to absolutely no avail. It almost feels like some kind of cosmic joke not to be able to find a copy of the book bearing my surname (no relation to the Brothers Grimm, incidentally – I’ve checked the family tree numerous times). I should really have a copy of it at hand, but of course my battered copy is tucked away at home in Hampshire. Alas.

Christmas break is coming soon, and I haven’t made any progress on creating my own eighth-year spell. Granted, I still have more than a year ahead of me to come up with something, but I would rather get ahead of the crowd and avoid having the very same problem I seem to be having right now, where no inspiration seems to be available.

Besides, we in the Grimm family are never ones to let opportunity slide away from us.

I grab a collection of _Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes_ off the otherwise empty shelf and slide down the ladder with a huff. At least it’s likely that my favorite window seat will be available, the one that overlooks the edge of the Wavering Wood. In spring, the grass is flecked with yellow and purple wildflowers, and the autumn colors make the trees look like they’re permanently aflame. Right now, at the onset of winter, it’s a bit barren, but nonetheless beautiful with a blanket of fresh snow. In any case, there’s always something to look at when your book proves to be a bit dull.

Except today, I don’t seem to be able to get what I want. Because _she’s_ sitting there in my seat, jackknifed in on herself with a thick book propped open on her thighs. As I get closer, I squint and see the glint of fire in the reflection of her half-moon glasses. Not this nonsense again.

“I have half a mind to report you to Ms. Oldman for using hazardous materials in the library,” I call as I get closer.

“I’m amazed you have half a mind at all,” she replies, not once looking up from her book. She wiggles her fingers lazily, the fire winding over and under her knuckles.

“ _Pitch_.”

“Grimm.”

“Natasha.”

She finally looks up at me over the rims of her glasses. “Do I have to say your name, too, or do you remember what it is?”

“You wound me.”

Natasha’s face splits open in a wicked grin. “Don’t I always?”

“Every time I look at you, it’s a knife to the heart.” I nudge the toes of her boots. “May I sit?”

“And just when I was getting so cozy,” she sighs, shuffling a bit and sitting up, crossing her legs in front of herself.

This is the game we always play: trade barbs and witticisms when we’re around other people, then let the mask of rivalry drop when we’re alone. We _are_ competing for the top position in our class, but toward the end of fifth year we somehow stumbled into friendship. And right now, we’re…nudging toward something else, I think. At least a small part of me want us to be.

I’m content with where we are now, though. I could use more friends. And I’m not so sure a Pitch would deign to let herself be with the likes of a Grimm. Not in _that_ way, anyway.

“What’ve you got there?” she asks, pointing her chin at the book in my hand.

“Mother Goose’s nursery rhymes. I’m looking for spell inspiration.”

“Getting a bit ahead of things, I see.”

“There’s nothing wrong with planning ahead. Farmers always have to think ahead to the next season.”

“Fair point.” Natasha closes her fist and snuffs out the flame that has been dancing around her hand. “I suppose you’ll be trying for a growing spell of some kind.”

“Agricultural spell,” I clarify, “and those are notoriously tricky.” Plants have a finicky tolerance for magic. Some species can absorb spells and carry on growing as though nothing happened, while others tend to take a spell’s wording literally and explode out of control. The tolerance can vary from plant to plant of the same species as well. You would think it might be nice to raise an entire field of wheat to maturity in one day, but the consequences would be unpredictable at best. At worst, it’s led to some of my ancestors being executed for performing miracles (or witchcraft, depending on who the Normal ruling authority was at the time).

No, what’s best is to let plants grow as they would. Let everything unfold naturally, and give it some gentle magical prodding when necessary.

“Surely there’s something simple you can do.” Natasha takes her glasses and pushes them up over her forehead, taking back a few strands of black wavy hair at the same time. “Something like **_I heard it through the grapevine_**.”

“What’s that?”

“Marvin Gaye. Soul music.”

I give her a blank look.

“American.”

“Ah.” I don’t keep up much with American music; Natasha is a nut for it. “And that would be for…?”

Natasha shrugs. “Protecting gossip? Conveying secret messages? Whatever you want, I suppose. Only a suggestion.”

“No, no, it’s a good one.” I crack open the copy of Mother Goose’s nursery rhymes and flip idly through the pages, hoping to run across something promising. “You’ve already got a spell, haven’t you?”

“Surprisingly, no. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do have one.”

I look up from my book with a raised eyebrow. She raises one back at me with a half-smile.

“ ** _C’mon, baby, light my fire_** ,” she whispers, and a ball of fire erupts in the palm of her hand. Her deep brown eyes seem to smolder in my direction. Suddenly the library seems much hotter, like one of the boilers started malfunctioning. I try not to stare at her or the flame, but I can’t seem to look away…

“I don’t know what the spell would be good for, though,” she mutters, and the heat subsides. I tug on the collar of my turtleneck to let some of the sweat dissipate. “The song is about passion, and love spells are rather dubious, aren’t they? A bit too close to compulsions for my taste.”

“Y-yes,” I say, fighting the urge to fan myself.

“It’s hardly an eighth-year spell. Nothing revolutionary.”

“In the right hands, it could be. In your hands.”

Natasha squints at me. “Are you all right, Malcolm? You look feverish.”

“’M fine. Yes. Thank you.” I blink several times over and try to focus down on the pages of Mother Goose. Surely there has to be something in there worth my time. Nursery rhymes are some of the most potent sources for spells, after all, since we learn the words from such a young age.

Ah. Here’s something that looks promising. I pull my wand down from out of my sleeve, while Natasha looks on in interest.

“ _Mistress Mary, quite contrary, **how does your garden grow?**_ ” I recite. A deep red rose blooms from the tip of my wand, the blossom drooping heavy with petals. Natasha reaches forward and catches the rose before it hits the floor.

“Ooh, I quite like that one,” she says. “It’s like asking what someone’s astrological sign is. Do it again.”

I repeat the spell. Another red rose. And another – I can’t help but oblige. Natasha grabs them all and leans her head in for a sniff.

“They’re lovely, Malcolm,” she tells me, looking up through her dark eyelashes. Were they always that long?

 _Not as lovely as you,_ I think. But my tongue mercifully stays quiet and spares me any further blushing.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me at messofthejess on Tumblr if you like~


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